'Cause the Hardest Part of This is Leaving You.

" I don't know why they've sent you here, " The Receptionist says.

" We were asked to come. " Mom tells her. " Dr Ryan's secretary phoned and asked us to come. "

" Not here, " she says. " Not today. "

" Yes here, " she tells her. " Yes today. "
She huffs at her, turns to her computer and scrolls down. " Is it for a lumbar puncture? "

" No it's not, " Mom sounds incredibly pissed off. " Is Dr. Ryan even running a clinic today? "

I sit in the waiting area and wait for them to be done. A lady is sitting near the corner with penciled fake eyebrows peeping over her glasses. There are various magazines scattered on the table in front of me. I pick up one and don't even have time to open it before Mom taps me on the shoulder. " Bitch. " she quietly whispers.

" What? "

" We were right, she was wrong. " She waves cheaply at the receptionist as she helps me stand. " Stupid woman doesn't know her arse form her elbow. Apparently we're allowed to go to straight through the great man's office! "

Dr. Ryan has a splash of something red on his chin. I can't help staring at it as we sit opposite him of his desk.
" Thank you for coming, " he says. He shuffles his hands on his lap.
Mom edges her chair closer to me and presses her knee against mine. I swallow hard, fight the impulse to get up and walk out. If I don't listen, then I won't know what he's going to say, and maybe then it won't be true.

But Dr. Ryan doesn't hesitate and his voice is very firm. " Gerard, " he says. " It's not good news, I'm afraid. Your recent lumbar puncture shows us that you cancer has spread to your spinal fluid. "

" Is that bad? " I ask, making a little joke.

He doesn't laugh. " It's very bad, Gerard. It means you've relapsed in your central nervous system. I know this is very difficult to hear, but things are progressing more quickly than we first thought. "

I look at him. " Things? "

He shifts on his chair. " You've moved further along the line, Gerard. "

" How much further along the line have I moved? "

" I can only ask how you're feeling, Gerard. Are you tired, or nauseous? Do you have leg pain? "

" A bit. "

" I can't judge it, but I'd encourage you to do the things you want to do. "

Moms trying unsuccessfully not to cry. " What happens now? " she asks, and big silent tears fall out of her eyes and plop into her lap. The doctor hands her a tissue.

Dr. Ryan says, " Gerard may respond to intensive intrathecal medication. I would suggest methotrexate and hydricirtisone for four weeks. If it's successful, his symptoms should improve and we can continue with a maintenance program. "
The doctor keeps talking and Mom keeps listening, bit I stop hearing any of it.

It's really going to happen. They said it would, but this is quicker than anyone thought. I really won't ever go back to school. Not ever. I'll never be famous or leave anything worth while behind. I'll never go to college or have a job. I won't see me brother grow up. I won't travel, never earn money, never drive, never fall in love or leave home or get my own house.
It's really, really true.

A thought stabs up, growing from my toes and ripping through me, until it stifles everything else and becomes the only thing I'm thinking. It fills me up, like a silent scream. I've been ill for so long, puffed up and sick, with patchy skin, flaky fingernails, disappearing hair and feeling of nausea that permeates to my bones. It's not fair. I don't want to die like this, not before I've even lived properly. It seems so clear to me. I feel almost hopeful, which is crazy. I want to live before I die. It's the only thing that makes sense.
That's when the room comes sharply into focus.
The doctors going on about drug trials now, how they probably won't help me, but might help others. Mum's still crying quietly.

It's October. Halloween soon, then firework night. Christmas. Spring. Easter. Then there's my birthday in April. I'll bee seventeen.

How long can I last it out? I don't know. All I know is that I have two choices - stay wrapped in blankets and get on with dying, or get the list back together and get on with living.